WitFit Prompts 2012
by Ruibin Rua
Summary: I thought it was time to put some of my own words here. Each chapter stands alone unless I indicate otherwise.
1. Good Girl

**I've been having trouble finding the courage to post on this site, so I thought starting with pieces of writing inspired by the WitFit Prompts might be a good way to dip my feet in these waters. My pieces are written in the moment and are entirely my own work. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm flying this one solo, so any feedback is most welcome.**

**WitFit Word Prompts: compete, discrete, receipt**

Always being the discreet girl, the good girl was tiring. She was the one who changed the topic of conversation when his eyebrows contracted and his index finger curled in towards his palm. She was the one who passed him a tissue under the table when just the slightest hint of blood began to pool in his nostrils. She was the one who held his head to her breasts when he thrashed in the night, unable to escape the demons that dogged his every step and she pretended not to notice when he looked at her with desire in his eyes, only for his body to disagree.

So when he forgot her birthday, she tried to let it go. She gathered up her belongings as usual and tiptoed from the apartment, ever conscious of his need for what little rest he could get. She waited for the train to work with all the other grey-morning commuters, standing straight and calm as always, being careful not to stick the ends of her handbag into anyone's thigh. She greeted the receptionist with the same friendly smile, the same shy wave, and didn't complain (verbally) when she found the coffee pot empty - again.

She didn't jostle to compete for her favourite chocolate in the latest box to appear on the receptionist's desk courtesy of another satisfied client. She didn't show her frustration when her boss lost his receipts for the month again and yet expected her to smooth out his expenses' claim with Accounts.

Yet all her patience, all her goodness couldn't prevent her from looking at her phone throughout the day, couldn't ease the hunger for that one person's words in a sea of greetings from those for whom she should have been grateful.

It didn't stop the tears from coming when she arrived home, cold and tired, to a dark apartment with dishes in the sink, cigarette butts on the sill and used towels strewn across the bathroom floor.

But when he found her curled up on the unmade sheets and climbed up behind her, when he whispered "happy birthday" in her ear and led her into the darkened kitchen where a home-made cake adorned with candles took up somewhat lop-sided pride of place on the counter, when he cradled her against his chest and told her that he loved her, then, this good girl was glad.


	2. No Nonsense

**I'm trying for a light-hearted piece today. My pieces are written in the moment and are entirely my own work. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm flying this one solo, so any feedback is most welcome.**

**WitFit Word Prompt: Persistent**

**Picture Prompt: "The Finger Kiss Photo" (find it here: www . littleabout . com/ Odd / 19-amazing-pictures-missed / 98710 /)**

Everyone knows that the best way to clean the shower is when you're in it, right?

That was Bella's logic when she stripped down to her underwear and stepped gingerly into the grimy shower stall. Using it didn't quite require donning a Hazmat suit yet, but the downside of living with sporty boys was evident in the grime beginning to creep up the sides.

She didn't fear being discovered in her compromised state, as her housemates were all still in their respective homes for the holidays. She hummed to herself as she worked vigorously to shift a particularly persistent stain.

She turned on the spray to rinse the stall and thus, failed to notice that one of these aforementioned housemates had returned. Edward stood stock-still in the doorway, unable to believe his luck. Here was the girl he had lusted over for months standing in their shower, water streaming down her body and her cute blue underwear, which was sodden at this point, leaving nothing to the imagine. He swallowed heavily, as his hand came to rest on his already prominent erection.

Bella continued to hum to herself while she wiped down the tiles, and Edward crept closer to observe her perkily bouncing breasts. The sudden silence of the water powering off wasn't sufficient to break him from his observation of his almost-better-than-naked housemate.

Beginning to shimmy out of her knickers, Bella finally faced him as she turned to close the shower door. She cut a comical figure, standing with one hand on the band of her descending underwear, the other stretched to pull the shower door towards her. She could only gape in disbelief at the sight before her – Edward, ridiculously hot, unattainable Edward, stood palming himself with a look of increasing ecstasy on his face.

In these situations, the expected reaction (at least in the movies) is for the girl to scream and rush to cover her nudity with faux modesty, while the guy looks on with a cocky smirk on his face.

This narrator is happy to report that neither Bella nor Edward reacted in the typical manner here. Bella, recovering her composure, looked on in frank appraisal while Edward's hand stilled on his crotch and a ruddy hue spread across his cheeks until even his ears were red.

"I…", his brain cells were still searching for the defibrillator at this point.

Bella took a steadying breath and stepped out of the shower. She took his hands in hers and placed them on her hips, where he gripped her reflexively.

"Shower sex looks hot as hell, but I'd much rather try my bed. If that's alright with you?"

Her arch look and the feel of her damp skin under his hands was enough to jolt Edward back into action.

Trailing his fingers softly up her ribs, he indicated his approval with a kiss.

**A/N: **I'm working late tonight and typed this on a fifteen-minute break, so please forgive any and all rusty bits.


	3. Daughter

**I feel that I should warn you about this piece. The tone is quite sombre and I'm not even sure I should be posting it. I'll leave it to you all to decide.**

**My pieces are written in the moment and are entirely my own work. No copyright infringement is intended. I'm flying this one solo, so any feedback (the good and the bad) is most welcome. That being said, I wouldn't have even contemplated doing this without the support of some very special friends - y'all know who you are and what you mean to me. Friends truly are the family we choose for ourselves.**

**WitFit Word Prompt: styrofoam**

There's nothing worse than the taste of machine-percolated coffee, except perhaps the taste of coffee when drank out of a styrofoam cup.

Here I am, skulking on the first floor of the hospital, in an alcove lit only by the alien-blue light from the vending machines and strip lighting along the floor, sipping a hideous beverage and struggling to get my breathing in check.

The nurse, seeing me flee upon our arrival, thought I was upset and I was, just not upset for the reasons she expected. Was I disturbed by the sight of him, pale and wrinkled, in a hospital bed? Yes. Did it make my heart twist with guilt to witness his delighted smile upon seeing me in the doorway? Yes. But above all, what hurts the most is the anger I feel at not being able to feel compassion for my ailing father the way any normal child would. I am a caring person, a sensitive person, but it is impossible for me to separate that impulse for good from all the other emotions broiling inside of me.

Of his five children, I am the only one who has come to visit and I ask myself, would I have come if I wasn't still living at home? Would I have called to see how he was, to give my mother support at this time? For as conflicted as my emotions may be, they represent the emotional range of a goldfish in comparison to those of my mother, partner to this man for 40 years through every blow and word of anger and disgust.

The bitter tears fall unchecked and the tepid coffee spills over my trembling fingers until I set the cup down on a bench. There is no one to observe my public breakdown, but I can't help but ponder how my anguish would appear to an outsider. I am in a hospital, a place straddling the line between healing and death, crying my eyes out in a shadowy corner. "She must really love him", they would say.

Do I? Is it in me to hate? All I know is that the acrid bile of hatred proved too destructive for me to swallow, so I have chosen this default emotion, this veiled stab at dislike, this apathy with a touch of concern. It's an imperfect state of being, but it allows me to cope for now.

My gaze settles on the red dispenser on the wall, and I focus on the instructions for the proper sanitisation of hands while my breathing evens out and my cheeks grow sticky with dried tears.

I chose to come here, because my mother needs me, because that man in there is my father, the provider of 26 of my chromosomes. Perhaps, most of all, I am here because I am a good person and I cannot let him take that away from me; I take my cues from my own sense of right and not in reaction to what he has made me suffer.

And so I cover all evidence of my turmoil before re-entering the room, mumbling an excuse of needing air. I sit on the bed, I glance at the TV screen, I help him understand the remote control, I visit with my father.

3


	4. Rhythm

**My pieces are written in the moment and are entirely my own work. No copyright infringement is intended. I'd like to thank all those who reviewed what I have written during this first, especially nerve-wracking week. Your support and encouragement is so precious to me. As always, I welcome any and all feedback, even if you tell me that I'm an indulgently romantic fool.**

**WitFit Word Prompt: Target**

With his eyes firmly fixed on his target, he sprang into action as soon as the call was made to "find a partner". She stood against the far wall, looking down at her feet, her ready blush obvious from a distance. He watched her start in hopefulness as a body passed close to her and then fix her gaze on the floorboards again, fearful of having betrayed her eagerness.

When his sister Alice wheedled him into taking these dance lessons with her, he had been a decidedly reluctant companion, especially when she fixed her sights on getting to know the floppy-haired poet who moved through each class with his eyes half closed, feet drifting languidly from one step to the next. This made Edward, the only other unattached male, prime real estate for every simpering female who happened to _stumble_ through the steps and fall against his chest with hands _accidentally_ trailing to grip him below the waist.

She had joined the class two weeks' late; shy and hesitant, she moved through the steps with care and an endearing earnestness. Each week, she was forced to partner up with the dance instructor, whose stern frame sought to mould her softness into a firmer form of submission. Each week, he watched her over the shoulder of his partner for the evening, her nose scrunched up in concentration, wincing with every misstep.

This was the week he had staked out in his head as his week with her. They had moved to learning the waltz and he ached with imaginings of holding her in his arms and guiding her gently through the melodious steps. He approached the corner where she stood, waited for her to lift her face to his and then swept into a jaunty bow. She giggled, bringing her fingers to her mouth in delighted surprise. His easy grin put her at ease at once and she placed her hand in his warm palm with trust circling the depths of her dusk-coloured eyes.

'One-two-three, one-two-three', the music struck up and they counted together, as their bodies moved towards each other in jerky movements. He held her within the strong cradle of his arms, spreading his fingers delicately between her shoulder blades and pressing with just enough force to bring her body closer to his. She glanced at her fingers entwined with his, alabaster white clasped in warmest tan, and followed the reassuring line of his arm until her gaze settled somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear.

They began a slow and cautious traverse of the room, and her mouth lifted into a slight smile when he steered them clear of the more enthusiastic members of the class and into the safer outer ring of the dancing circle. She flexed her fingers on his shoulder and he dipped his head confidentially towards hers. The damp tendrils of her hair grazed his cheek, as she tipped her face to his, defying decorum. Soft grey peered into darkest hazel and it was in this state of hushed wonderment that they made their way about the room, flowing and swaying in time to the music. Their feet, unfettered by fear or consciousness, stepped smoothly and without falter, while the notes of _Moon River_ found their nucleus in this spellbound pair.

He spun her out from his body in a burst of self-assurance and was rewarded by the bloom that spread, tantalising, enticing his eyes to stray. Chests close, but not quite touching, they remained in an almost-lovers' embrace as the music drew to a close.

He slid his hands down her arms, holding the tips of her fingers in a loose embrace. The light in her eyes dimmed as their instructor announced the end of class, but he held her hands tighter and tugged her towards the ante-room where they stowed their belongings. She followed willingly, as he strode to the bench where she had left her bag and jacket, only letting go of her hands to hold her jacket in front of her and gesture that he would help her put it on. She shivered as he drew the garment over her shoulders, tenderly drawing her hair from beneath the collar. She turned to face him with molten eyes and watched as he shrugged on a sweater, exposing a sliver of skin as his arms stretched upwards.

"I'd like to take you for a coffee, if you have time."

He paused, waiting patiently while she soundlessly repeated the word "coffee".

He put out his hand, as he had done when he asked her to dance, asked her to trust him to guide her through the steps. She saw the same kindness reflected back at her now and so she placed her hand in his and gave him her answer.

**_Moon River_ is a song composed by Johnny Mercer (lyrics) and Henry Mancini (music) in 1961, for whom it won that year's Academy Award for Best Original Song. It was originally sung in the movie _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ by Audrey Hepburn. The version I listened to while writing this piece was sung by Andy Williams.**


	5. Air

**When I read the prompt for today while I was still at work, I had to suppress my ideas until my day was over and then, because I don't carry a laptop to and from work, I had to resort to traditional pen and paper for this.**

**WARNING: This piece contains references to DNRs orders and end-of-life situations. If this is a sensitive topic for you, you may wish to skip reading this. I am not a medical expert, nor did I have access to any research while writing this piece, so please excuse any vagueness on my part. I'd also like to emphasise that the opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily my own and I am not seeking to advocate any particular choice.**

**WitFit Word Prompt: ink**

Jasper spun his wedding band absently with ink-stained fingers, hands already bearing the marks of the pact he had made to sign his life away, or to prevent any means of reviving it at the very least. All around him, were people fighting to survive, clinging to the final threads of what it meant to feel alive. Jasper had no such luxury; he was the trickle of sand in an unbreakable hourglass, each breath pushing more sand through the narrow channel and taking another piece of him with it. He couldn't take the chance of crashing only to be resuscitated, couldn't burden her with a vegetable for a husband.

Alice. He had waited over forty years to find her and had spent eight blissful years since then celebrating her place in his life. Who knew, when they vowed to live each day as if it were their last, that the universe would demand payment in full. Eight years - beautiful, exhilarating years - but the mere blink of a moth's wings in the grand scheme of time. Eight years of loving, working, living. How much time had he wasted sleeping, and slaving at a job that he would trade for her in an instant? Eight years wasn't even long enough to tarnish the like-new gleam of his wedding ring, a ring that was already slipping from his thinning finger.

"There are just a few more forms to sign, Mr Whitlock, and then you can leave."

Nurse Platt had been eyeing him anxiously since she had led him to this blank, sterile room where his signature across a few pages was sufficient to ensure that his last breath really would be his last.

"Are you sure I can't get you anything?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Nothing? Not even your wife?"

He looked up sharply, taken aback by the shift in her tone.

"Because she's been pacing outside for the past half hour."

"Alice? She's… here?"

He had pleaded with Alice not to come, but couldn't fully disguise the hopeful note in his voice.

A smile flickered across Nurse Platt's face, as she held the door open with her hip and gestured to someone outside. Alice stepped determinedly into the room, her musky perfume pervading the space, banishing the cold, clinical smell and triggering an immediate relaxation of her husband's posture. Nurse Platt looked between them before backing out and closing the door softly.

"Alice -"

"I know -"

They both stopped with an awkward laugh.

"After you." He gestured for her to go first, an action that had become something of a joke between them; Alice was an enthusiastic talker, to say the least.

"Jasper, I love you," she swallowed heavily before continuing.

"I respect you and I've listened to your reasons for wanting this DNR order. I'm trying… so..._hard_ here."

She broke off at this point, searching her pockets for a tissue. Jasper half-rose from his seat, but she raised her hand to halt his movements.

"We've know each other over eight years, eight years of being as close as it's possible for two people to become. We're not in the first flush of youth, Jasper. We went into this without any of the typical bullshit."

He raised his eyebrows involuntarily at the uncharacteristic sound of a curse passing from between her lips.

"We agreed to be partners in this," her voice had dropped to a whisper.

"We are, Al, but -"

"_Yes_, I know! This is _your_ health, _your_ body, _your_ life. I'm just the selfish bitch trying to tether you to this world!"

His chair sliding back across the tiles was a wounded cry, as he moved towards her, gathering her trembling body to him.

"_This_ sound, Jasper," she rested her palm against his chest, "this sound is the most vital thing in my world."

She brought his left hand to rest above her breast.

"This here," she pressed his fingers into the skin covering her heart, "this _fights_ for you. Why can't you do the same?"

Her eyes fluttered closed in sheer exhaustion and he traced the delicate veins with his eyes.

"I don't take this course of action for my own benefit, Alice."

He was forced to pause as she wrenched herself violently from his embrace.

"BULLSHIT! That's _exactly_ who you're doing this for!"

In all their years together, he had never seen her like this. She was magnificent in her righteous anger. Seeing her standing before him - heaving chest, bright eyes, clenched fists, emotions unfolding like a fan - he felt again the doubt that was never far from the surface. She must have seen some sign of him wavering, stepping right up to him until their toes were touching.

"I am _begging_ you not to give up. Not to give up on me, on us, on yourself. Don't you want to fight? Don't you want to know at the end that you did everything possible to live?"

He framed her face with his hands, saying nothing. She gazed into his eyes, stripping herself bare in the process, showing him everything - her anger, her fear, her fragile, sugar-spun hope, her love.

"You don't _need_ to do this, not now, not yet."

She brought her hands up to twine her fingers with his.

"If the time comes where you know it's the only option, the only thing bearable, I'll support you. I swear to you, I won't allow you to suffer needlessly. Just, not yet. Don't write the end in ink just yet."

He continued to gaze at her intently.

"I told you that I'd love you until the end of my days, that I'd never stop living for you until there was no air left in my lungs to breathe."

He brought his lips to hover over hers.

"There is still air."

**A/N: I don't consider writing dialogue to be a particular skill of mine, but when Jasper and Alice stepped into my head, there was no other option but to allow them to speak for themselves. So any feedback, particularly on this aspect of the piece, would be most welcome.**


	6. No Nonsense 2

**When I started writing this piece, I saw it as a continuation of the story thread I began in Chapter 2. However, I realise now as I type this, that I may have taken the sass out of my Chapter 2 girl and injected some (unwelcome?) vulnerability into her. That isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it's also not my intention to back-pedal and imply that women can't be sexually assertive. So, please feel free to think of the Bella here as another girl in another life unrelated to what has gone before.**

**As always, no copyright infringement is intended. The following piece of writing is entirely my own work and once again, it began its life as scribbles in a notebook on the train home from work today. Let me just say this - it's not easy to hide citrus from the guy sitting next to you, but I defended my paper womanfully!**

**Word Prompt: Shell**

**Dialogue Flex: "There's only one thing on my mind right now," he said.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.**

* * *

><p>Most people come out of their shell in college, veins full of the heady sense of being away from home and responsibilities for the first time, and being finally free to experiment without fear of censure. Bella's college experience hadn't quite followed the trend. In fact, college life was such a complete shock to sheltered Bella's system that her heart rate didn't return to the realms of normality until her fourth and final year. This was the year of the great thaw of Bella Swan, the beginning of a Bella who looked inside herself and tried to pull what she really thought and felt to the surface. She began to fight back against the weight of expectation, to flex her independence muscles and, most importantly, she faced up to the fact that over three years of pre-medical studies had made her no more inclined to be a doctor than she had been when she began.<p>

It had been six months since the fight to cap all fights, where her parents had stared in bewilderment at a child that no longer seemed to be theirs. Swans were doctors and Bella, in eschewing that perfectly paved path in favour of a pot-hole ridden dirt-track, had all but declared herself to no longer be a Swan.

Her parents' continued refusal to accept her decision left Bella with no choice but to leave home and find a job to begin paying back the monstrosity of a loan that was the equivalent of two lifetimes' worth of debt. Not doing anything half-heartedly at this point, she moved clear across the country and settled in the box room of the house of one Mr Edward Cullen in the suburbs of Chicago.

It was this trajectory that led Bella to awake on a chilly March morn in a bed that was not her own. Without opening her eyes, she knew that she wasn't waking up in the same way she had every morning since arriving here six months' ago. It wasn't simply the fact that the pillow beneath her head was firmer than her own, or that the sheets smelled of boy ('yummy boy', she decided as she inhaled deeply). It wasn't even the arm slung across her middle that clued her in, although that was an admittedly subtle-as-a-brick clue to begin with. No, the most obvious sign to Bella Swan that she was not waking up in her own bed was the rather unmistakeable sensation of lying in bed sans clothes with something that was not a dodgy mattress spring poking the curve of her ass.

Wiggling experimentally quashed any last hopes she may have had that the object behind her was inanimate and the warm breath stirring the hairs on the back of her neck settled the matter conclusively.

She was lying in Edward Cullen's bed, _with_ Edward Cullen, an Edward Cullen who had spent the night fucking her six ways' to Sunday.* And the aforementioned Mr Cullen was now shifting closer to her with a satisfied sigh and cupping her breast in his palm.

She stifled a moan of part desire, part desperation. How had she managed to get herself into this mess and how was she going to get out of it? How had this even _happened_? Oh yes, she'd propositioned the man while standing dripping wet and semi-naked in the bathroom. Bella made a mental note to cancel her subscription to _Cosmopolitan_, because it was clearly having an adverse affect on her psyche. That and the advice of siren extraordinaire Tanya Denali, her lesbian housemate and confidante on all matters sexual. Not that Bella had much sexual confiding to do. Okay, so the reality was that she had _nothing_ sexual to divulge. Bella's abstinence wasn't so much a dry spell as prolonged drought in a perpetually arid land. A brief fling a year ago in a quest to let herself go had been freeing and surprisingly cathartic, but far from orgasmic. Indeed, orgasms, hers in particular, were territories that her partner had failed to chart despite numerous voyages not lacking in enthusiastic determination.

Edward Cullen had had no such problems navigating the region, scaling sheer mountain faces and abseiling spectacularly down the other side. Repeatedly. No wonder she had passed out in a stupefied heap last night.

Speaking of Edward Cullen, Bella was roused from her musings by his foraging fingers, the index of which was slowly circling her right nipple. She bit back a squeak as the far-from-inanimate object grew in size, nestling itself more firmly between the cheeks of her derriere in the process.

"Good morning," came the sleepy voice behind her. Some kind of uncontrollable spasm was Bella's only response to this greeting. Edward, oblivious to his bed partner's escalating panic, yawned lazily and arched his body in a stretch of complete repletion. After all, he was waking up to Bella Swan in his bed, the lusciously naked Bella Swan.

Her continued silence and increasingly rigid posture acted as a bucket of cold water to his amorous inclinations and he removed his arm and rolled onto his back to give her some space.

"Bella?"

Bella was occupied with finding a way to exit his bed without exposing her body. She slid one leg out from under the covers, attempting what can only be described as a shimmy towards the edge of the bed. Edward looked on in amusement, as she rested one foot on the floor while hitching the quilt under her arms and dragging it slowly from the bed, winding it round her and gathering it off to one side of her body. He couldn't help but laugh when she threw a furtive glance his way, cheeks beetroot, but a self-satisfied smile on her face at having pulled off the manoeuvre.

He only laughed harder when her eyes widened to the size of bottle caps at the realisation that he now lay before her in all his naked morning glory.

"Ah…I...you… Bathroom." She mumbled this last part as she began a crab-like shuffle towards the door.

Edward watched appreciatively as she made it to his door, unaware that the quilt covering her body was dipping dangerously low at the back.

Ten minutes later, when she still hadn't returned, he donned boxers and yesterday's t-shirt before going in search of her. He found Bella sitting at the head of her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, trying not to hyperventilate. She didn't look up when he took a seat gingerly before her, but her body flinched reactively to his presence.

"Hey." His tone was gentle and his eyes, when she risked a sideways peek, were soft and kind.

When she dipped her head back to her kneecaps, he reached out to clasp her face in his palms and tilted it to face him. They stared at one another, wordless, each unconsciously shifting closer to the other.

He was struck with the memory of how she had looked coming undone beneath him, a look of disbelief warring with her need to unravel. Never had a girl looked at him like that during sex, and the swiftness and intensity of his own release upon noticing this took him by surprise. Even when she was riding him with abandon, there was a hunger and vulnerability in her that spoke to the compassionate soul in him.

Bella's eyes roamed over Edward's face while he was lost in his reverie and she, too, reflected on what it had been like to have her body claimed so completely by him. She remembered the way his fingers had spread across the curves of her hips while she rode him, the way he had pulled her closer and rose up on his elbows to encase her nipples in his mouth and lave them with his tongue.

Most vivid of all was the memory of lying beneath him while he traced her stretch marks with the tender brush of his mouth before gripping her thighs firmly and sinking so deeply inside her that she almost lost her breath. Even now, with doubt and insecurity nipping at her heels, she recalled the look in his eyes as he brought her to a wave of climax almost painful in its ecstasy, telling her to look at him and kissing her fiercely before he spilled inside of her with a cry of completion.

He had looked at her as if she were the only woman he desired, as if he loved her.

Her breath exited her body in a whoosh of air as she came to the startling realisation that he was looking at her that way now.

"There's only one thing on my mind right now," he said. "And that's showing you over and over again how much I want you. I won't stop until you believe me."

His earnestness gave her a boost of confidence. "I'll try not to be convinced too quickly then."

**A/N: Are you still with me? I've never written a piece quite like this before, so I'm not sure if it's complete rubbish, passable, or relatively readable. I'll apologise now just in case!**

***Are you familiar with the phrase "six ways to Sunday"? It's something we would say here in Ireland, but I don't know if it is used elsewhere. In a nutshell, it means "in every way possible". So yeah,_ that's_ pretty much how Edward was having sex with Bella.**


	7. Life Living

**I'm sorry for the delay in posting. This is the piece I should have posted on Wednesday and while I actually wrote it on that day, I didn't have time to type it up until now. It's short and more stilted than I would like, but I didn't want to completely fail in my commitment to myself and to those who support me. As always, no copyright infringement is intended - these are my words.**

**Word Prompts: Leap, reap**

Every decision that Isabella Swan had ever made had involved a leap of faith. From leaving the family home at the age of nineteen, to throwing her boyfriend James out of her apartment even though she thought he was the only man who would ever want her, she had learned to trust the swooping sensation in her gut that she experienced each time she stepped from the ledge without a harness.

The landing was often rough and she had the bruises to prove it, but she had never had a fatal injury. In fact, she had discovered that acting on her own impulses was more likely to bring her happiness than those around her who continued to bob in the shallow end of the pool with neon armbands attached. It didn't mean that everything always turned out rosy - she had messed up as often as she had succeeded and cried an ocean's worth of tears - but she had spared herself the slow burn of regret that she saw weighing down so many of her contemporaries.

How could Isabella be anything but grateful for the gift of living when she continued to reap the rewards today? Years of anxiety and braving the unknown had been the dress rehearsal for the greatest role of her life, loving and being loved by Edward Cullen. She woke on the morning of her sixty-fifth birthday to the tender touch of his fingers in the secret places that only he knew, that only he could ignite. The passion between them was of a different quality now, more steady than desperate, more instinctual than conscious, but the beauty of their unhurried joining was to be found in witnessing two souls who had ridden the peaks and crescendoes of life together still revelling in their union.

They had dressed warmly in the grey hush of the pre-dawn and driven the short distance from their home to the rolling hills of the surrounding countryside. One hill in particular was their destination; the spot where they had made love for the first time, slightly awkward in the damp, tickling grasses, the place where Edward had proposed in the driving rain, where she had told him that he was going to be a father, where they had mourned the loss of beloved friends in the dimming of the day, and celebrated the sheer exhilaration of standing hand-in-hand in the face of the rising sun, their hearts pumping with the same reassuringly vital pulse. All through the years of loving and building on that love, this had been their home at world's end, the place where their spirits and their hope in the power of "us" were continually renewed.

Isabella couldn't imagine witnessing this moment alone and she banished the grim spectre of their advancing years by clutching Edward's hand tighter. Her companion of nearly forty years, her Edward, stood faithfully by her side, still cutting as elegant a figure as he had all those years ago on a crisp Autumn morning when she had flagged him down in the desperation of being lost in a new city, only to find herself minutes away from her new place of work and his office building. His posture was less erect now and he exhibited the faintest tremor in his left knee, but the network of lines around his mouth reflected the respect and care with which he always treated the world, and her hand felt as safe in his grasp as it had on the day she had pledged to give herself to no one but him.

As Isabella contemplated a busy day of family dinner and gift-giving, she knew that nothing would compare to this moment now when she turned to her beloved husband and watched the sun rise in eyes that only saw her.

**A/N I fear that my undertaking to write a piece every day was too ambitious given my travel and work schedule (and my limited creative abilities), but I'll still try to post as often as I can each week.**


	8. Impressions

**I hadn't planned to write this piece, but the word prompt from earlier today was swirling around in my brain and then this scene strolled right in. It's wordy, so I hope you enjoy it! You know the drill by now - no copyright infringement intended and the words are my own. It's 1am here in Ireland, so if I've failed to notice some errors, please forgive me (and point them out to me).**

**Word Prompt: Impression**

I went into the interview so eager to make a good impression. Carlisle Cullen was serious business in the newspaper world and an internship at his paper would open so many doors for me, maybe even one into his newspaper itself.

I had a sinking feeling that things were going to go badly when he escorted the interviewee preceding me out of his office before slapping him on the back and striding back inside. I wanted to leap from my chair leaving my uncomfortable heels behind when said interviewee paused in front of me and looked down with a sneer. I also wanted to whack the guy over the head with my portfolio - he had a large nose just begging to be hit - but I digress.

When I was called into the interview room by Mr Cullen's secretary, only to crash forehead-to-chest into the room's occupant, I knew I was fucked. Rocking back on my heels, I would have landed on my ass, if my human crash barrier hadn't grabbed me by the elbows and kept me upright. To say I blushed would be like saying Voldemort wanted to have afternoon tea with Harry. I'm pretty sure that I bypassed red this time, going straight to purple, and my complexion wasn't helped any when I looked up into the face of the guy holding my arms and tottered slightly on my feet again, and not because I should have worn flats. Even though I really should have.

Peering down at me with an amused look on his face was the handsomest man I had ever seen. I'm not exaggerating. You know those Hollywood actors that smoulder at the camera and then make your ovaries explode when you see them doing interviews where they bashfully admit to loving their mums? Yeah, this guy was even better than that. Those guys could only be touched through the TV screen; this guy was standing in front of me, holding me.

The clearing of a throat behind us brought me back to the let-me-sink-through-the-floor-with-embarrassment reality of the situation. My saviour, who had yet to utter a word, released me with a smile and stepped back and to the side, placing me directly in the line of sight of Carlisle Cullen. I beseeched my overstimulated hormones to pipe down already, because really, what are the chances of bumping, literally, into the man of your dreams only to find an aged-to-perfection version of him standing before you in the same room?

"When you're ready, Ms Swan." Carlisle Cullen was clearly not amused by my bumbling entrance into his office.

Adjusting my bag and portfolio to free up my right hand, I approached the desk and stuck out my hand. The fact that it was trembling slightly wasn't the worst of it; Mr Cullen taking my too-damp hand in his and releasing it after a decidedly abrupt shake with a look of disdain certainly was.

"You've already _met_ my son, Edward." I didn't miss the sardonic emphasis on the word "met", but mustered up a tentative smile as I held out my hand (which I had wiped surreptitiously on my dress).

The best bit about the interview? The hot-as-hell men with whom I shared a room for twenty minutes. The worst part? Everything else. My bum had barely hit the chair when Mr Cullen senior was quizzing me about my previous work experience. I started my spiel, opening my portfolio and pulling out samples of my work. I spoke for a minute before he interrupted me for the first time. He ripped one of my best articles to shreds, questioning my research, my facts, my opinions. When he picked up another piece and cut me off before I could explain the background to it, I knew I was toast. And so it continued for the entire interview. Carlisle Cullen bulldozed his way through every defence I constructed and the more I refused to shift in my opinions, the more aggressively he hounded me for them. The fact that Edward Cullen looked on with a thoughtful expression on his face made matters infinitely worse.

When the torture session disguised as an interview was over, I barely had the wherewithal to shake Mr Cullen's hand and thank him for his time before I walked to the door on limp legs. Needless to say, he did not walk me to the door. It barely even registered with me when his son sprang to my assistance and held the door open for me. I don't even think I thanked him.

I took off my heels in the mercifully empty elevator on the way down, because what was the point in that shit anyway? I should have known that I wouldn't be enough to impress the mighty Cullens. Not smart enough, not poised and polished enough, not arrogant enough. I padded across the marble-tiled lobby in my stockinged feet, too emotionally drained to care about how I must look.

Stepping out into the rare March sunshine, I pulled the barrette from my hair and let the breeze lift the weight of it from my neck. I began to breathe normally again when -

"Ms Swan! Isabella! Wait."

A quick glance over my shoulder showed no less a personage than Edward Cullen striding quickly across the lobby in pursuit of me. I ignored him and broke into a brisk walk. Let the great Edward Cullen run after me if he was so inclined. Yet when he passed by me at a relaxed lope and started jogging a few steps in front of me, my surprise forced me to pause.

"Isabella, I know you saw me coming after you."

His tone was light and non-accusatory, which was not what I had been expecting. I also hadn't expected the look of frank admiration on his face.

"I think I should enlighten you as to what really went on during that interview."

"Mr Cullen, I'm perfectly aware of what went on in that interview, thank you very much, so excuse me if I decline your offer of a post-mortem."

Instead of being affronted, my rudeness seemed to encourage him.

"First of all, it's Edward. Mr Cullen is my father. Secondly, I think your impressions of the interview differ widely from mine and, as the son of Mr Cullen, my 'post-mortem' - the son-of-a-bitch actually used air quotes - is bound to be more accurate than yours."

I was beyond frustrated at this point, but this impossibly handsome man was standing in front of me and my resistance to him was proving much weaker than I would have liked. I made an impatient motion for him to continue, to which he responded with a smirk.

"I know you think it was a complete car-crash, but by my father's standards, it actually went pretty well."

He ignored my derisive snort and continued.

"The fact that he actually spent that long talking to you and going through your articles proves that you have piqued his interest."

"Mr Cullen - Edward - Your father annihilated me in there. I've… I've never made a bigger fool of myself than I did in that office today. So… If you were trying to reassure me -"

"My father wouldn't be up there right now talking to the professor you listed as a referee if he wasn't interested."

Well, that bit of information shut me up. He was calling Professor Langton? Really?

"Are you sure he's not calling to tell him what an idiot I am?"

Edward chuckled and I tried to ignore the pleasantness of the sound. I think my squirming may have clued him in to my reaction, because the cocky bastard grinned at me.

"My dad's a hard ass, but he plays fair. He threw everything he could at you and you didn't buckle. He likes that in his employees. I like it too."

His voice had grown flirtatious and I shifted on my feet uneasily. I knew Edward Cullen by reputation only. He had been Captain of the award-winning debate team, President of the Students' Union and all-round panty-destroyer in college. Since graduating four years ago, he had spent time living in the Middle East, reporting on conflict zones and basically wooing the world with his journalistic skills. Rumour was that he had already been approached by the New York Times now that he was back on home turf again.

"Look, I won't lie, you need to work on your delivery. Big-time. There were a few times back there where you could have gone in for the kill, but you backed off. That's just not good journalism. And it won't impress my father. But you have spunk and sass, and you're one heck of a writer already, so the rest will follow. You're sexy as hell too when you're angry, which doesn't hurt."

I vaguely recall dropping my shoes at this point, because even I couldn't miss that Edward Cullen was full-on flirting with me. I think I may have let my handbag slide to the ground at his next words.

"Have dinner with me. I'll give you some pointers on how to handle my dad and what to expect from this internship."

A startled laugh burst from my lips before I could stop it and Edward squinted at me in puzzlement.

"Why are you laughing? Am I missing something?"

"This doesn't happen to me, Edward. I guess I'm just… surprised. I mean - Are you actually asking me out? On a date?"

His expression cleared and I was already close to being swayed by the new look of softness in his gaze.

"Isabella, I would like to take you out to dinner and get to know you better. Is that so hard to believe? Are you really so amazed by that?"

"Edward, where I come from, men don't typically ask me out on dates. Actually, they don't ask me out ever." I hadn't meant to reveal so much, but nervous babbling is an incurable disease.

"Well, they're all clearly idiots then!"

His chivalric declaration made me smile and his answering smile, which I would describe as a beam, made me swoon a little inside. Okay, more than a little. I took a deep breath and then another for good measure.

"Edward, I would love to have dinner with you."

His genuinely pleased expression made me giddy in a way I had never felt before.

"Excellent. May I pick you up at six thirty? I already have your phone number and know where you live, so there's no point beating around the bush on that one, is there?"

"I guess not. Six thirty is fine." I shuffled my shoeless feet awkwardly and focused on the tips of his shiny shoes.

"Well, I'd better get back then. I'll see you later."

He bent to pick up my high heels, before taking my left hand and pressing my fingers into the backs of the shoes. That one touch and the loaded look that passed between us made the blood rush through my veins and, as I watched Mr Edward Cullen's fine, fine ass walk away from me, I reflected that the day hadn't been such a disaster after all.


	9. One Night

**For Racer and LT, who appreciate my romantic side. **

**Are we still doing this? Okay: no copyright infringement is intended and the following words are mine alone.**

**Word Prompt: rally**

I knew it was a mistake the minute I woke up with sleep-sticky eyes, fuzzy head and carpet-mouth. I had been hopped up on liquor and the heady feeling of desirability, but I couldn't even blame it on inebriation; I didn't do shit-faced, and was left to lament the notoriety of this fact amongst my peers.

I didn't do casual sex either, but that didn't stop me winding up in your bed. Your breathing was soft and steady beside me, and the thought flitted through my brain that perhaps I could slip from beneath the covers without waking you, let you think you had spent the night with someone else, someone more your style. Problem was, you hadn't been drunk either, the lot of the designated driver. Which led to the equal parts intriguing and disturbing question: why did you pick me?

I shifted restlessly, as my bladder made its increasingly loud demands known. Things wouldn't be quite so bad when I managed to escape out of here. Then I could wash the scent of you from my skin, if not the memories, and call my friends to rally round me in my hour of need. I had never needed them for this purpose before.

You looked so peaceful at rest, with none of the intensity and tension that radiated from you in waking hours. Your eyelashes shadowed your cheekbones gracefully, and I flushed with the remembrance of how your stubbly jaw had felt rubbing against my breasts, my waist, my stomach, and lower.

Other needs stirred deep in my belly, as the events of last night streamed through my brain in all their full technicolour, surround-sound glory. The delight in your eyes when you discovered a sensitive spot below my ribs, the sound of your rhythmic breathing as you moved above me, the way your fingers gripped my hips firmly as I rocked above you in ecstasy.

I remembered it all, but, most of all, I remembered how you drew me towards you when we were both sated, wrapped your arms around me from behind and breathed my name into my hair with a tone bordering on reverence. The tenderness of the gesture nearly broke my heart, and it took everything in me not to cry aloud.

For what was spun in the sanctity of the night could not be recaptured in the cool light of day. You would glance idly at me like you did everyday over the cereal box, while your eyes tracked the unconsciously swaying hips of her all around the kitchen. And your whole face would light up when she threw a smile your way.

Only now, you wouldn't stay in the same room as me, as the awkwardness of what we had done would surely choke us into silence. You wouldn't tug the end of my hair before you left for the day. You wouldn't share half your sandwich with me, when I came home famished during the short break between my morning classes and afternoon job. I'd be that girl you slept with in a fit of horniness, the consolation prize to the beauty queen you would continue to pursue.

With my mind made up and my heart settling somewhere in the vicinity of my toes, I eased myself off the bed in preparation for a panicked crab-walk to the door. I had just clutched my discarded dress to my chest when your hand shot out and wrapped warmly around my wrist. I froze, becoming absorbed with tracking the grains of wood on the floor. One word melted my facade, one word lifted my heart from its descent.

"Stay."


	10. Bare

**I'm sorry that it has been so long since I updated this. I'm just not going to be able to fulfil the "daily" part of the WitFit challenge! You know that no copyright infringement is intended - it's just not my style.**

**Word Prompt:** Pierce

**Plot Generator — Idea Completion:** Swimming against the tide.

An idea or concept is presented. Follow where it leads you.

* * *

><p>She stood before the mirror smoothing the ice-blue silk that skimmed her hips. The fabric of her dress floated gently to her knees and the creamy expanse of her legs was uninterrupted until they met her bronze peep-toe heels. She wore no adornment save a ring on her left hand, diamonds winking in the soft lamp light. Clothes were scattered across the bed and floor, as she had ransacked her closet in search of the perfect outfit. Her golden hair gleamed dully in its elegant twist, wispy tendrils framing her heart-shaped face and flushed cheeks.<p>

She turned from the mirror, heels clicking rhythmically on the exposed hardwood floor and began folding and hanging, returning the room to some semblance of order. Her hands paused on a red dress swinging haphazardly by a lone strap from the bedpost. The soft jersey material yielded to her touch, as she brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. She liked to imagine that a faint musk clung to the fabric, even after all this time. She remembered the first and last time she had worn the dress, recalling vividly how it had sighed contentedly as it drifted to the floor at night's end. Her fists clenched around the bodice and she sank onto the bed, putting her head between her knees, counting in her head and breathing deeply. Her hands shook and her jaw clenched, as she fought to regain control. As her breaths slowed, the antique wall-clock's ticking was the only sound in the room and she matched her breathing to its soothing predictability.

She stood carefully, rocking backwards slightly on her heels and knelt at the bedside. She pulled an old, battered suitcase from beneath the bed, her hands swiping clear tracks through the dust-laden cover. The unzipping sounded oppressively loud and her hands faltered, before opening the case with one determined tug. Her fingertips grazed the papers reverently, but she didn't allow her gaze to linger. She folded the dress and placed it on top, touching it carefully and closing her eyes briefly at the deluge of memories that still had the power to pierce her resignation. With a sigh and a shake of her head, she closed the the case and shoved it back beneath the bed.

She drifted back over to the mirror, touching up her make-up, plucking imaginary threads from her dress and allowing the seconds to tick by. The doorbell ringing interrupted her reverie and she clutched her arms in reflex. Surveying herself in the mirror, she smiled wryly; she was no longer a woman who could wear red. She slipped on her grey wool coat and wound a bronze and blue embroidered scarf round her neck. As she passed the hall-table on her way to the front door she picked up her waiting clutch, dropping something into the little ceramic bowl that usually held her keys. Opening the door with a tentative smile in place, the answering smile that greeted her eased the ache in her chest. She passed her bare left hand along the wall, flipping the light switch, and pulled the door closed behind her.


	11. Tea For Two

**Something short and sweet, which I hope to continue. No copyright infringement is intended, because I'm classy like that.**

**Word Prompt: beam**

He always ordered the same thing; a large mug of tea, filled three-quarters full with the bag left in. The first time I filled his order, I watched transfixed as he doctored it to his own unique specifications; filling the mug to the brim with milk and squeezing the life out of the teabag before dumping it out.

He caught me shaking my head at his actions and challenged me to show him my definition of the perfect mug of tea, if I was so sure his was the wrong way to go about it. Not one to turn down a challenge, or the chance to drink more tea, I made up a mug for myself and leaned, smiling, across the counter from him. His answering smile, which could only be described as a beam, had me sloshing tea over the sides of my mug - a big no-no for a serious tea-drinker like myself.

So began our routine of sitting on opposite sides of that same patch of counter, each sipping our preferred beverage and shooting the breeze about the news, the weather and anything else that came to mind. Our conversations were never deeply personal, but I found myself getting to know him better just by listening to his opinions on the world and the more I got to know him, the more I liked him.

He had been coming in for close to two weeks before I learned his name. I didn't believe in name tags and luckily, my boss was laid back enough to agree. My logic is: if you want to know my name, ask, and don't waste time we could spend getting to know one another peering at my chest. Unfortunately, my companion never seemed to feel the inclination to ask me my name (or peer at the chest) and I lacked the courage to ask him first.

The big reveal finally came when he answered his phone at the counter and replied "This is Edward Masen" to whomever had called. The fact that the termination of his phone call was followed by him hastily gathering up his belongings put a decidedly large spanner in my plans to introduce myself.

"I'm sorry. I have to go. I - I have to go."

I looked on helplessly as he threw one last look over his shoulder before barrelling out the door. I promised myself that I'd ask him about it the next day and take the consequences that came with blurring the lines between us.

The next day came, but he didn't show.

When an entire week of chain-drinking tea had passed without my favourite tea drinker coming in, I switched to herbal.

**A/N: This idea just popped into my head and not as the result of any word prompt, but I incorporated one in afterwards. So, technically, I cheated, but I hope you'll forgive me if I've managed to make you smile.**


	12. Tea for Two 2  contd from ch 11

**I had great plans to write daily, or almost daily, but life had other ideas. I don't think I fully realised how hard it is to write every day, especially when I'm travelling to work and trying to get back into study mode as well. To those of you who update daily and charm me with your words - I salute you (not that any of you are even reading this). As for me? It's just not gonna happen!**

**No copyright infringement is intended. Seriously, is this the face of a criminal? *holds up mirror, which promptly shatters***

**Word Prompt: fringe (from April 11 - it was the only one that 'inspired' me)**

* * *

><p>I was cleaning the counter after the last patron had left for the night when the bell above the door chimed.<p>

"I'm sorry. I'm just about to close up."

"I'd kill for a cup of tea."

I looked up to see a sheepish Edward Masen shifting from one foot to the other by the door.

He moved closer, as I continued to gape open-mouthed at him. I hadn't seen him in weeks. I'd stopped hovering by the patch of counter closest to the door when one of my other regulars thought I was hitting on him. Now _that_ was an awkward conversation!

I glanced at my watch before looking at Edward again. Up close, he looked terrible. His skin was slightly grey in pallor, as if he'd spent a lot of time indoors, and I had never seen his eyes so dim and glassy. Even his beautiful hair looked defeated, wisps of his fringe hanging limply in front of his eyes.

"Take a seat while I lock the door and pull the blinds."

He smiled gratefully at me and set his bag and coat on a chair.

When I struggled with the last window-blind - the one that always stuck (and the one that had tried to knock me out on more than one occasion) - he jumped to my aid.

"Here, let me."

"Thanks. Just - be careful, okay? It's really a psychopathic metal pole posing as a window-blind."

He grinned at me and pulled it down smoothly in one go. Lucky bastard.

"It's just lulling you into a false sense of security. Next time, you'll need to wear a helmet."

His answering smirk did weird things to my insides. Although that might just have been the ridiculously large chocolate muffin I had consumed earlier.

He settled onto his usual stool and I turned away abruptly to hide my blush. I hadn't cleaned the machinery yet, so there was still hot water ready. My hand hovered over the Earl Grey, before I decided to settle for my usual blend. I had tried to disassociate Edward with tea by drinking herbal, but quickly learned that that was impossible. Plus, I was a bitch without my hourly caffeine hit.

I placed a steaming mug before him and watched him perform his usual steps to make the perfect mug of tea.

"You remembered how I like my tea." He muttered this while staring raptly at a teaspoon.

"Any good barista would." I realised how dismissive I sounded when he gave me a disappointed look.

"Oh."

I took a generous gulp of tea, quickly realising that I hadn't added any milk.

"Shit! Fucking hell! Shit, shit, shit!"

I started pacing around in a circle with my tongue out, flapping my hands in the air. I came to a halt when I realised that Edward was laughing at me.

"It's not funny. I could have been seriously injured you know. My bloody tongue is blistered!"

I couldn't remain pouting for long when I had the glorious sight of Edward laughing his ass off in front of me. He leant his head against the counter, tears streaming down his face while he continued to laugh weakly. I think the boy actually hiccuped.

I poured a glass of milk and chugged it back. It helped some, but I'd be feeling the burn for a few days.

"Are you okay?"

His tone was sincere, but I couldn't mistake the twinkle of mirth in his eyes. I smiled back unconsciously.

"I'll live. It's not the first time, but I've wasted a perfectly good cup of tea now."

I looked mournfully at the liquid before me and pressed my tongue gingerly against the roof of my mouth. Ouch! No more tea for me tonight.

When the silence stretched on, I sighed heavily and pushed off against the counter.

"I'm just going to start cleaning the machines while you're here, if that's okay?"

"Sure. I mean, of course. I don't want to keep you."

It was as if we had never met before, never shared those hours of conversation and I wondered if this was the last time he'd come back.

**A/N: I'm not sure when I'll update again, but I like this particular storyline, so I'll try my best.**


	13. Tea for Two 3

**Word Prompt: knot**

**I just wanted to continue with this.**

* * *

><p>The silence continued while I cleaned the coffee machine thoroughly, swept the floor and prepped the cafe for the next morning. I held my breath each time Edward lifted the mug to his lips and set it down, carefully, barely making a sound. Each moment where he didn't speak tightened the knot in my stomach. When I couldn't take it any more, I came around the counter and sat on a stool facing him, our knees almost touching.<p>

He looked up at me and the pain etched into the lines in his face made me reach out involuntarily. He met my hand in mid-air and brought it to his face.

"I thought of you. I don't even know your name, but I've thought about you so much."

He spoke in a whisper, as if his voice was strangled by all the feelings he held inside. It was hard to focus on his words with the feel of my skin touching his. His cheek was flushed and I traced the circles under his eye carefully.

"My dad died. That's what the call was about. The day I ran out of here. He had a massive seizure and... he never woke up."

He closed his eyes and reached out blindly for my other hand. I twined my fingers with his and breathed softly: "Oh, Edward."

His eyes fluttered open again. "You know my name?"

"That day - you answered the phone as Edward Masen. I - I don't know what to say."

His lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. "You can tell me your name."

My pulse quickened as he brought my left hand down from his face and held both of them loosely on the counter. I should have felt afraid, but the feeling of rightness in that moment was indescribable.

"Isobel. My name is Isobel."

He cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips.

"Isobel. It's not what I imagined, but I like it. Do you have any nicknames?"

I shook my head. "I don't like nicknames."

A welcome smile broke out on his face. "I think I'll have to give you a nickname."

I rolled my eyes playfully, relieved to see the darkness recede from his face, if only for a moment.

"Your - your dad?"

"I don't really want to talk about it right now, Isobel. I'd just like to sit a while longer here with you."

He brought our clasped hands to his face and pressed a whisper of a kiss to my knuckles.

We sat like that, hands clasped, eyes locked while the silence wound its careful spell around us.


	14. Tea for Two 4

**Is it vain for a writer to admit they like their own characters? I really love writing about these two! :-D**

**Word Prompt: Rapid**

**Dialogue Flex: "I promise I'll be home soon," he said.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.**

* * *

><p>"I promise I'll be home soon," he said.<p>

Edward glanced apologetically at me across the table.

"Sorry about that. Mum is staying with me at the moment and she was wondering when I'll be home."

"It's okay if you need to go. I know your Mum is your priority right now"

"Bel, I look forward to seeing you all day. I don't want to think about leaving just yet."

His words were like the feel of a warm drink on a chilly morning and I reached out to clasp his hand. He had started calling me Bel and after a faint attempt at annoyance, which wasn't really fooling anyone, I had acquiesced. It was so easy to be with him like this, and we had both become comfortable with each other's touch quite rapidly. My relationship with him felt so natural; I never had to wonder anymore if we were on the same page. On the subject of his feelings for me, at least, he was exceptionally verbose.

We hadn't spoken about his father since that fateful night a week ago, but he had been returning to the café every evening to spend the last few hours before closing with me. He sometimes brought his work with him and set up camp at the counter while I took care of the usual evening rush and prepared for the next day. When it was quiet, like tonight, we moved to a table and worked side-by-side, or just sat and talked.

Since I had left home and moved out on my own, there had never been anyone waiting for me at the end of my day. To see him there, to catch his eye after a particularly obnoxious customer complained that there wasn't enough froth on his latte, all these little things made me feel lighter than I had ever felt before. Who knew independence could weigh so heavy on me?

"Penny for them."

I arched my brow. "Only a penny?"

"I was just thinking how much I enjoy your company here every evening and how much I'm going to miss it."

"Miss it? What do you mean, miss it?" His features were screwed up in anxiety and I smoothed his brow with the tips of my fingers.

"I just meant that I won't be working here for the next two weeks. My exams are starting and I've taken some time off to study. Ned was actually really good about letting me take a break."

"Geez. I'm so clueless. I never even thought to ask you when your exams are!"

He raked his hands roughly through his hair, so that it stood up adorably at the back. I couldn't help but smile with delight at the chance to run my fingers through the strands. Edward was an attractive guy, but he wasn't vain and these little irregularities in his appearance made me care for him all the more.

"It's okay. You've had a lot to deal with and I'm pretty prepared for these ones."

"You'll have to give me your timetable, so that I can keep track."

I didn't want to tell him that I had already copied my exam schedule for him a few days ago. He might think I was secretly making a scrapbook of what our future children would like if I sprung that one on him tonight.

His next words interrupted my musings. "And…will I see you? I mean – do you want space, or…? 'Cos I don't want to crowd you or anything. I mean, I'm here for you, but you don't have to see me if you're too busy, or…"

"Edward." I placed a finger gently against his lips and tried to remain focused on his anxious babbling rather than the feel of his lips. So soft, but with a little rough ridge of skin where he chewed on the lower one when he was concentrating. We hadn't kissed yet, apart from him giving me a kiss goodnight on the cheek or temple, and I was dying to feel him closer to me.

"Edward, I'm going to be stressed and busy, but of course I still want to see you! You'll have to be patient with me, but I don't want to put this on hold."

A smile blossomed across his face, lighting up his eyes and the darkest corners of my soul.

**A/N: Reviews truly mean the world to me - be they long or short, it's nice to know who's out there reading. So if you have time, let me know what you think. Even if you haven't reviewed before, or you like to lurk, think about it.**


	15. The Museum of Lost Things

**These words are my own. Who else would claim them? **

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

**Word Prompt: Messy**

**A single word meant to inspire immediate thought. Write what your imagination dictates.**

* * *

><p>She sat at her desk scrolling through emails and tried to ignore the creeping hands of the clock – surely it had stopped working altogether? Rose's latest temp job was the dullest yet and she had taken to counting the pinholes in the walls of her cubicle – eleven on the right side and a whopping twenty-two in the wall facing her. What did her predecessors pin to the walls? A plan of the building's emergency exits? A self-help guide to finding a better job? A do-it-yourself make-up kit to paint open eyes onto one's eyelids?<p>

So far, Rose had resisted falling asleep and suppressed the urge to run screaming from the building; although the latter was a close-call on the afternoon she was asked to inventory the stationery cupboard and discovered a commune of spiders dwelling there. She couldn't help but wonder why on earth he even needed a personal secretary. The phone hardly ever rang and more often than not it was just someone looking for the chippers down the road (sometimes she listened to their orders before telling them that they had the wrong number). As for his day-planner, that thing had more tumbleweed blowing through it than you'd find in a John Wayne movie.

If Mr Masen wasn't the sweetest old man to ever wear a tweed jacket with elbow patches, Rose would have packed in the job and requested a re-assignment. Others in her position would have been grateful; a job like this was the equivalent of being paid to leave your brain in bed while your body went to work each day. She could catch up on the reading for her coursework and had even completed a mid-term essay on a particularly slow morning, which basically meant that Masen & Co had received no post that day instead of the usual flyer for the local hardware store.

Even with all the perks, Rose didn't like the feeling that she was deceiving Mr Masen somehow, stealing from him. She had tried to talk to him about it, becoming perhaps the only employee on earth to ever explain why she felt her job was redundant, but he would hear none of it. He liked having her there, he said. She looked after him and he appreciated her.

She did look after him. He reminded her of her Grandpa Joe, who had died when she was a teenager. She used to visit him every afternoon after school and climb into his wide lap like an armchair. From the circle of his arms, she learned not to be frightened of the world, to open her eyes to what each day could bring.

In Rose's mind, cheating Mr Masen was like cheating her Grandpa and she didn't like that feeling one bit. She was only occupying the post for six months, but had already cleaned and re-organised every surface, including messy Majorie's desk – now there was a dead weight. In fact, if she thought about it, Mr Masen's office was like the museum of lost things. Marjorie had lost her husband and rarely made it through the workday without crying in the toilets. Brian was an ex-con who went to afternoon AA meetings three times' a week and Megan had started working for Mr Masen when her husband ran off with the bank manager and her home was re-possessed. By comparison, Rose was the most stable employee there.

All of these things could have remained a mystery to Rose. She could have done her job for six months and then moved on without another thought.

The visit of Mr Masen's son changed everything.


	16. The Arrival of Thunder

**Another scene from "The Museum of Lost Things" storyline (see Chapter 15).**

**Who said Emmett has to be a jovial teddy bear? Please don't try to picture Kellan Lutz for this – it just won't work.**

**No copyright infringement is intended. The words are mine.**

**Dialogue Flex (last week): "That's not how you treat a lady," she said.**

**Using the provided snippet of dialogue, explore what comes to mind, be it a scene, a thought, or something else.**

**Word prompt (today): pique**

****Please forgive me for re-posting this. I had to add the line about Emmett sitting in her desk-chair, which I omitted last time in error.****

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><p>To say that Mr Emmett McCarty-Masen knew how to make an entrance would be an understatement. It had been pouring rain all day and the thunderstorm had begun around lunchtime. Rain beat against the window panes and the languorous growl of the thunder surrounded the building. Rose eyed her umbrella dubiously; she wasn't relishing the walk to the bus-stop later.<p>

She had just stepped out of Mr Masen's office, having delivered his usual afternoon tea tray, when a man appeared. Rose knew that Mr Masen had two sons, but as he wasn't the kind of man to adorn his desk with family photos, she had no idea what they looked like. She approached the visitor warily – Marjorie must have been on another crying jag in the loos.

Emmett stood imperiously at the opening to her cubicle and thrust his dripping umbrella at her as she approached. He proceeded to strip off his gloves and sodden overcoat while Rose stood gaping before him and she almost swallowed her tongue when he dumped his coat into her arms.

She found her voice as this, as yet unidentified stranger, made to step around her.

"Where I come from, that's not how you treat a lady," she said.

"You're not a lady, you're my father's secretary," was the less than gallant reply.

Rose stepped defiantly into his path. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and an imposing stance, but, in heels, Rose could look him straight in the eyes.

"Well, as Mr Masen's secretary, I must ask you to wait while I inform him of your arrival. I'd ask to take your coat, but…"

She raised her eyebrow mockingly and shook his umbrella slightly so that a few stray drops landed on his shiny shoes – how they looked so good after a walk in the rain was a mystery to her.

Emmett looked unconcerned as he brushed past her and took a seat in her desk chair. He rested his left leg against his right knee and gazed up at her unblinkingly.

Rose restrained her pique at his audacity and took care hanging his coat on the stand to the right of Mr Masen's door. She stood at the entrance to her cubicle and surveyed her intruder thoughtfully.

"And may I ask which of Mr Masen's sons is gracing us with his presence today?"

Again, there was a slight puckering of his lips, but the hard lines of his face remained entrenched.

"Emmett McCarty-Masen. The bastard."

Rose did a double-take at this potential double-entendre. Emmett suddenly grinned, but there was a challenging edge to his expression that put Rose on her guard.

"Please excuse me, Emmett, the bastard, while I speak to your father."

She paused just long enough to register his look of shock mingled with appreciation, before she left him sitting there.

**A/N: This little scene wouldn't leave me alone at work, but I'm afraid I have to leave it here for today.**


	17. Crossroads

**It's a weird one, I won't lie. Not sure how I came up with this and you may think it's rubbish. Think of it as an experiment, a once-off wacky experiment.**

**Word prompt: packet**

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><p>He stood before me in all his immortal glory. We had reached the crossroads where I could either join him in living death or fade into the fabric of time, one tiny stitch in that infinite tapestry.<p>

He brought his hand to my face, tracing the tears that trickled down my cheeks and flowed from my fingertips. I had become the watery despair of my grief, a witch on the path of darkness.

To ally myself with him was to spurn everything I held in high esteem, to become a statue in an ever-moving stream. Piece by piece, time would wear away at my soul, and I would become like him, more terrible than beautiful, more monster than human being.

His love for me was the coldest, purest diamond with nothing but sharp edges. He was embedded within me, in the deepest parts of me and loving him made me bleed.

I could be either witch, bringer of light, or vampyre, more terrible than death, more absolute that hell.

He held his hands out to me. In one lay a dagger and my never ending death. In the other, a creased brown packet and the promise of oblivion.

Which to choose?


	18. Flip

**This scene niggled at me until I got out of bed and turned back on my laptop to write it.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

**Word Prompt: Rush**

**Dialogue Flex: "He doesn't want to be bothered right now," she said.**

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><p>Rose stepped out of Mr Masen's office, closing the door softly behind her. Emmett swivelled around and made to stand up. Rose raised her hand in an entreaty for him to wait. <p>

"He doesn't want to be bothered right now," she said. 

Emmett landed heavily in the chair and raked his fingers roughly through his hair. 

"Well, fuck." 

Rose hovered beside him, uncertain what to say. All she could think of was the resigned look of disappointment on Mr Masen's face. This was the man who took on employees thrown on the rejection pile, the man who had given her a job when she turned up desperate in response to his advertisement and admitted that she couldn't continue to pay her rent without this job. Her loyalty lay with him. 

And yet the sight of the cocky Emmett McCarty-Masen slumped at her desk, muttering to himself, tugged at the soft places inside her. 

"Did he - Did he say anything else?" 

He looked up at her with honey-brown eyes and Rose felt a rush pass through her at his gaze. Emmett McCarty looked good when he dropped the bastard act. 

"He looked upset. He just said he couldn't see you today. Maybe… Maybe you can try again tomorrow?" 

At her words, Emmett's face closed down. It was startling to see the transformation, as if a chink of light had been swiftly extinguished. 

"I asked you what my father said. I didn't ask for your opinion. I don't think you're paid to give your opinion, are you Miss Hale?" 

His words were like a slap in the face and they woke Rose from whatever spell she had been under. 

"I am your father's employee, Mr McCarty. What he pays me for is none of your business." 

Rose regretted her words the moment they left her mouth. Emmett smirked as she flushed, satisfied that he had trapped her into an embarrassingly poor choice of words. He stood to his full height, which suddenly seemed much taller than before. 

"My coat, if you please." 

Rose retrieved his coat and watched silently while he donned it. He snatched his umbrella from her hand and turned to leave. Rose drew a shaky breath. 

"Oh. And Miss Hale? My father doesn't pay you. I do. So what you _do_ is very much my business." 

**A/N: This storyline is now being continued as a separate story - _The Museum of Lost Things_. You'll find it in my profile.**


	19. Forbidden Spaces

**I'm sorry that I haven't been posting lately. I've been writing a one-shot for a competition I'm entering and trying to keep my ideas for "The Museum of Lost Things" straight in my head at the same time. This is just a little something that came to me.**

**No copyright infringement is ever intended.**

**Word prompt: hold**

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><p>The first time Jasper met Alice, she was sitting on the floor in the men's bathroom. Leaning against a rusty pipe that protruded from the wall with her legs crossed in front of her, she casually smoked a cigarette.<p>

It was all he could manage to grab the nearest wall and splutter at her:

"This is the men's room!"

She breathed out through her nose and tapped loose ash from her cigarette against the underside of the sink beside her head.

"Really. In the three years I've been coming here, I never figured that out."

Her blank stare held just a hint of challenge, but it was enough to make him sweat.

"I - I can't be the first guy to come in and find you here!"

She arched an eyebrow in amusement and examined her nails.

"No, but usually the guys who find me in here don't want to talk."

She met his gaze, daring him to ask her to elaborate.

On that first occasion, all Jasper could do was release his hold on the wall and walk out the way he came in.


End file.
